Am I there yet? How long is this escapade going to last?

I have an overwhelming and painful urge to eat a 3-pound bag of peanut butter M&Ms. If I don't give in, I'll get this blog written. 

I am knee-deep in writing a book. 

Well... it's more like an outline. And maybe just up to my ankles. Or one ankle. 

This is lonely shit. Writing a book-slash-outline has to be the loneliest job, and it's an immense amount of work. I give props to my author friends that have been successful, have published, and still have their hair. Right now, my book is a lifeless bunch of ideas until the moment it isn't - and as a writer, I am hoping that moment comes. It's as if I can smell the book before I can see it. I know it's in me; I just need to write until I find it. I'm not entirely sure if I'm intuitive or irrational, or even if those things are different. I just know I can't drag this book into existence; it has to drag me. 

Step 1: open a Word doc

Step 2: give it a name

Step 3: eat the M&Ms 

Words of encouragement are welcomed. NO, REALLY. I'm begging. 

I accept white - especially on my wall

I’m in this funk, and I’m not exactly sure why – or even if it’s legit. As a writer, you’d think I’d see opportunity. I mean, a funk to a writer simply fills our arsenal with a ton of literary genius that quite possibly sells a million copies and wins the Pulitzer, right. Instead, I have to analyze the heck out this funk, this … thing …

Is it real? Am I making it up? Do I even have a right to be in a funk? I’m not dying, homeless, hungry; I’m not poor, abused or in jail. I can’t even remember the last time I cut myself shaving. What is my problem, and how dare I feel bad. I have a job. I have a roof over mine, and Haley and Marley’s heads. I have a serious stash of Pumpkin Spice m&ms, and let’s face it, I can’t remember the last time I cut myself shaving.

Well, it turns out today was a fine day for an epiphany. I’ve had one or two over the course of my lifetime, but this one was the most heart wrenching of the three. (Wow, once I put the total count in black and white, it’s almost funk-worthy in itself the serious lack in divine manifestation that I’ve had. I mean, just three?!? Holy Jesus, no wonder I don’t know shit.)

I am a series of contradictions. It starts with how I live.

I don’t allow myself to attach to ‘things’. I don’t. Things come and go. You have them then you lose them. You want them so you compromise something to have them. Then you lose them. Nothing comes and stays, except the expectations, obligations, and the awkward dependency. Things are objects that, in certain instances, can attach to emotions. I don’t need to look at a table and remember, “Oh, that’s the table that I dropped dad’s glass of wine on and it shattered and dripped on to the carpet and he turned into one angry Aztec God on me.”

Things clutter my life and they can very easily misdirect me most of the time. 

But things look nice on the wall.

Then the contradiction moves into my heart.

Men. Maaaannnn… men.

I watched my dad die and with his very last breath, he kissed my mom. It is the one time, in my lifetime, that has left me breathless. I want that. I want to love that man that much that I am willing to give my last breath to him in a kiss. I know this man exists, because if he doesn’t, that would be terrible and I don’t want to think about it, but, like things, men come with expectations and obligations and dependency; compromise is a given, and often one-sided, as well as trust and honesty. Let’s add monogamy in there, shall we. If he’s the right man, then [most of] that list is worth it, but if he’s not, and what if he’s not? Why take the chance? Why not take the chance. Why? Why not. Why? I could do this all day.

He might look nice on the wall.

Let’s move on. Why has the goal in life been to be smarter and funnier and more successful tomorrow than today? Why do I work so hard at making more money? Why do I care about living in a nicer house in a nicer neighborhood, or driving a car that has two working headlights? Why develop that cure for cancer? Extreme, I know, but stay with me for a minute. In the end, I will die.

I. Will. Die.

It’s bound to happen. Everyone is going to die, even the person that is cured from cancer will eventually die – not from cancer, I get it, but death is death is death is death. Why do I go through all this, why is my attention focused on being better, getting better, wanting better – more school to become smarter, work longer hours to be more successful, work harder to make more money, when in the end, after spending all those moments in a classroom, in an office, in Firestone, I am going to die. Moments spent that way shouldn’t matter that much to a person… to me. That cliché, there is only one happiness in this life, to love and be loved, is spot on. When I die, that is what will matter. When I die, if those things left in my house mean more to Haley than the love I had for her, then I messed up. Why can’t I just sit down and not want more, not feel guilty about not wanting more, and not feel lazy for not going after more? I mean, what’s wrong with a little white space on the wall?

Plenty of Fish. (more like a school of Mr Limpet's)

No, I didn’t accidently take the same medication twice. What I’m talking about is real science! Real science, people!

Believe me when I tell you it wasn’t my idea to take to the internet to find dates; it was my friends. But to be honest, anything sounds better than sitting at home, waiting for the perfect guy to fall through my ceiling and land on my couch. That’s just magical thinking, and who believes in magic? I believe in revenge. I believe in germophobia. I believe in laser hair removal. I do not believe in magic.

So I'm on the internet. It worked for my friend, plus the advertisement says I'm next!

The first step to finding Mr. Right is to fill out my profile. Now I admit I’m getting old, but I think I’ve done a pretty good job holding on to my “cool” quotient. I look completely normal, I have all my teeth, no pronounced facial scabs, and my manners are totally a cut above any African dictator who uses skulls for candlesticks. I should be good. This should be easy. 

And it was. It was very simple. In fact, the first thing that popped into my head is exactly what went down as my profile.

That was a bad move. I should’ve put more thought into it.

My profile (teaser campaign) reads [unchanged] something to the effect of: I prefer to spend my time outdoors, I believe that some micron of the universe will shift if I concentrate hard enough, I laugh in the face of ruthless 193 degree temperatures, I choose ninjas over pirates, and I enjoy smiling. I believe I also mention that I hate folding laundry, I'm Under 5 Feet Tall, my interests, among other things, includes chocolate and I have a car.

Within minutes of publishing, I had a string of at least 30 emails from fish. I don't know how it happened. Looking back, thinking I can shift the universe is a bit weird.

I’m going to speed ahead and ramble off a few of the User Names and Tag Lines that I’ve received messages from: NothingFishyAboutMe, Looking4the1, OnlyWantsToMeetYou, GetsItDoneAndFun, ImYourDreamDoctor, HammertimeHandyman, FromTh3Lotus, Mircleman, ChillyWilly2014, Deuceman, UWished4Me, BarneyStinson70, EpicDreamDoctr. I'm not making these up.

Some of the usernames were borderline offensive. Others, well it's clear they have not yet conquered the pinnacle of adulthood. 

Their profiles. My thoughts.

·         Please do not put down Athletic Body Type just because you wear Nike’s

·        If you describe yourself as a Class Clown, you now have a reputation

·         Your interests and hobbies should not include Internet Dating

·        Under the fill-in-the-blank “I am seeking a…” the answer should read “woman.” Don’t be creative here. Seriously. Stop.

·        Photos. Don’t post memes. Post photos. Don’t post photos of your feet buried in sand. Don’t post photos of you and three other guys and make me guess which one is you. Don’t post a photo of a body of water with the caption “I’m a fish in the big open sea – come catch me.” Just. Post. A. Picture. Of. Your. Face. Period.

Now let’s talk about the actual profile.

·         If your profile is more than three paragraphs, I'm skipping words and just trying to get to the end. If it’s seven paragraphs, I've screen shot you and you're now viral.

·         “I can think outside without a box; I don’t need a box to think outside of, especially if the box is outside of what needs to be thought of in this world that many of us put in a box.” What? WHAT? Just tell me, do you like to hike?

·        I would never be so arrogant as to have a shopping list of qualities. Evidently, men think it’s the way to go.

·         If your profile reads anything close to “You are (insert that long shopping list)” then I’m writing back and I’m telling you exactly what I think you are.

I need a moment … yes, I’m about to go on a flaming tantrum.

I have read profiles that go on and on with pointless details, details that give it all away. I know everything from the first concert you saw when you were nine to what kind of bread you buy at the store. You not only tell me who you are and where you’re from, but you tell me what you like to do and how you do it. You tell me how you act, what you eat, how you breathe, the brand of underwear you buy, it goes sock, sock, shoe, shoe, and the TP roll to goes under (wrong, it goes over). You make it clear that you will not be a Sugar Daddy... jeSUSSS!!!... Moreover, that you don’t like drama. Really? I thought everybody liked drama. Now I know you don’t. Then your profile tells me who I am and how I act. You tell me what I look like, how I think, what I do for you, what I do in my spare time, how I glow like the moon, or is it the sun, either way, for you I’m bouncing from the horizon in my perfectly fit body that participates delightfully in public displays of affection while being independent, funny, kind-hearted, tan, tall, not too tall, not too tan, soft spoken, smart as a whip, quick witted, I laugh at myself, I have a perfect driving record. I’m also a free thinker, an adventurer, I smell like lilacs in the spring on my worst day, have no ties, no drama, no bad days, no spinach in my teeth, I can turn rubbish into gold, I wear sparkly lipstick, and I accept you as you are – flaws and all. Well how lucky are you?

Does this mean hookers that pee in the open need not message you?

Moving on to the Messages. Here’s a couple:

“Aren’t you a sexy little chickie that I would love to squeeze.”

“Exactly how many times in your life have you met up with both a pirate and a ninja and you’ve had to choose between the two? I’m very curious. But if this is the standard of “cool” than I think I will have to choose Fonzie, after all he could make music play from a jukebox with one slam of a fist. To continue with my rant (which is meant to double as being flirtatious), what do you suppose the Japanese would say if the local ninja showed up with wrinkled tights and head wrap? I would like to think he irons before he goes out. Now I do believe we have a few commonalities. You like chocolate and my mother is from Belgium. Also, I think we… um… well, did I mention the chocolate thing? So tell me, what do you write? How much Under Five Feet are you. Did you go to summer camp as a little girl? I hope to hear from you. Eugene.”

“J”

“I’m John.”

“I like your First Date idea. So what time should I pick you up?”

“Please post more pictures. I’m very successful and enjoy where I am in life. I do not need a woman to make me happy, especially one that comes with drama, as most of you do. I am also someone that is very big into communication – real communication. I know this an unknown concept to most women, but if you try it, you may find it works. I’m looking for a commitment. The word is in the dictionary, although 90% of women have no clue what it means. I am never on this site as I have a very busy life and do not spend much time obsessing on the computer. Email me at xxx.xxx. Talk soon.”

“You have a great smile. I’ve been looking for someone like you for a long time.”

Ready for the cool part of my story? The part where I tell you how some of my dates went? YES, I actually went on a few.

First date. Tom. The plan was to meet for a drink. Little did I know the restaurant that he chose was the restaurant he and his ex-wife ate at every Friday? I listened to all the cool stories about the meals they shared. He told me about the games they played, such as he would tell her to pick out one man in the restaurant that she would go home with, not tell him which man she chose, and he would try to guess. Then it was his turn and she would have to guess which woman he was secretly lusting to go home with??? His nostalgic emotional attachment was… well it was downright disturbing. The “game”… even more disturbing.

Second date. Steve. The plan is to meet for a drink. He’s late. Turns out, he had to fit in a yoga class first. He was feeling fat.

Third date. Lainn. Well this date went pretty well and the few others that came after. Then I got the phone call.

Wait for it…

“Hey, it’s Lainn. I just wanted to tell you that I really like you. I have a great time with you. I’m very attracted to you and I want to see you again, but I want to be upfront about something. I’m probably not going to fall in love with you – I’m just not getting that with you – and I’ll date other women still. But if you’re okay with it, than I would really like to see you again.”

***

 I believe in romance and love and connection and that whole "soul mate" thing. I believe amazing magical things can happen over plates of gnocchi and bowls of frozen yogurt, but I also believe there are some strange fish out there with a messed up idea of how this whole thing should work. This is a message to men: I understand you have this ideal woman in your head – what she looks like, how she acts, how she makes you feel – but that kind of woman only exists in a country song. We don’t all dance barefoot in the kitchen, and if some of us do, we might dance like a white girl and you need to be prepared when you see this. Not all of us turn heads while wearing t-shirts and ball caps. Some of us need 12 minutes in a tanning booth and that sparkly pink lipstick. And women, your message is to not fall for cheesy pick-up lines or the first email you receive. There’s a man out there that will go to war for your heart. Wait for him.

While science and formulas and matching interest for interest sounds good, in my opinion, it’s really just a theory. For some it works. For others it pushes us into Email War as we defend all of our species from the attacks of jerks that think they know us and have set us up to fail through a shopping list of qualities that are too fairytale-like for anyone to match except maybe Angelina Jolie. The moral of the story – well there isn’t one. My profile is still out there, I’m still receiving emails, my ego has received a bit of a boost, but more than anything, I like making fun of people’s profiles.

I know it’s mean, but ImURDreamCumTrue is just asking for it.

Wanted: One Dragon Slayer

I loved her for more than forty years, and then one day she did the unimaginable - she broke my heart. 

On most days, I am my mother's daughter. She passed away five years ago, and when I sit down and think about it, I think one day the pain will go away, the grief will eventually disappear. But it doesn't. Waking up every morning with n empty, lonely feeling is as inevitable as nightfall. 

My mother... she always mothered and smothered me. My relationship with her was so many things, ever evolving and ever influential. She was all-knowing, all-powerful, sometimes the enemy, always the nurturer, but she was never another woman with similar problems and experiences. She was a symbol. It wasn't until the day she died that I realized she was someone, she was a woman, she had pain and sorrow, regrets, loneliness, a soul, a spirit, a heart, she had feelings. She was like me, and I was like her. But I didn't know it at the time; I didn't know it while she was alive. 

I've been thinking about her a lot, and I've been thinking about her death even more. Frame by frame, in slow motion, I'm remembering all of it, in the present tense, as if its happening today at an agonizing pace. I hear it, I feel it, and I'm experiencing it for the first time, I think. I didn't see these details before; I'm amazed at what my eyes witnessed years ago. If I had seen it or felt it this way when I was living it, I don't think I would have survived. They say the only way soldiers survive a war is to become unconscious. Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh says one must write the story you cannot bear to remember, let alone to record. Afterward, tell your story slowly. Tell it first for yourself. Second, so it will not fester within you. Third, so others will help you bear it. I don't know if I buy into the third reason. Those particular events and moments in my life that cluster together, within my inner territory, is what creates my personal journey, and whatever is fragmented, injured or suppressed within me, maybe shouldn't come out in self discovery. I mean, coming to know has consequences; it alters us. I'm not sure I'm ready to jump off that bridge or to go to the edge of that world where all the dragons live. 

A friend challenged me to write my life story, my autobiography, in five minutes. She said it can't be done. I said it can. 

"I am a woman." That was my opening line. See. Easy. 

Most people think you can't write a whole lot in five minutes, but suddenly, you can't stop yourself and you're writing faster than you think you can. The words are random, haphazard, and they start to sound like a bad poem. You're writing things like "pomegranates, flaming skies, blue men, crucifixions, meadows and galaxies, the waxing moon..." it's exciting, it's irresistible, it's freeing and BAM... you're lunging to the edge, almost eye to eye with the dragon, and what do you do? WHAT DO YOU DO? 

Me, I put my pen down. "I don't want to do this anymore."

Whether I'm in slow motion or at high speed, I seem to end up in the same place. Pretty subtle, Universe! I suppose the process of healing and moving on is in the storytelling. Healing doesn't come from a focus on one's self, but from real-time acceptance. Pain is probably a requirement. I think suffering is optional. 

On most days, I am my mother's daughter. On others, I'm hiding from dragons. 

Don't you love a good letter?

It's time to blog. It's been a while, but its not been because I've been preoccupied being a damn-cool-grandmother-that-can-walk-and-sing-and-take-a-million-pictures-that-take-a-hundred-hours-to-download-and-I-know-my-boundaries-even-though-I-don't-get-to-set-them-and-I-know-how-to-clean-explosions-in-bouncy-chairs. Nor is it because "my fingers are broken." (JOE)

I've been writing - in fact I have a great blog written - but I've been contemplating publishing it. It's a deep one. It's about balance and choices and self awareness, blah, blah, blah. I've written it, edited it and censored and un-censored the heck out of it, but haven't published it because for me, once something is published I feel like 'its' now in stone and I can't change 'it' and all I can do is face 'it' and, sticking to my current style of writing today, mmm-yeah-hell-no-to-the-never-EVER-f-that-shit-I'm-not-facing-it-yet. Not on Easter.

So, instead, today will be Open Letter Day. Time to liberate.

Dear Easter Morning Facebook Posters,

"He is risen."

Sooo, is he around? Is it a sneak attack? Should I be worried! Should I be smiling at strangers today? "Why hello little fear, you little punk, stop ruining my day. Shall we have a cookie and hash it out?"

Sincerely,
Jane. Doe.

Dear Haley,

It was your moving week/end and I realize I've taught you many, many things - except how to clean a house. My only advice to you is, A) hire a housekeeper, or B) marry one. We'll blame this on your dad.

And, hey, thanks for the bag of old clothes. Kind of neat how we can do this handy-me-down thing! Works for me! Geez, Holy heck, I spent a lot of money on your jeans back in the day! Gotta say I'm really excited over getting the Meks with the red on the pocket. They were my secret favorite. Are they out of style now? If not, they will be once I cut and fray the bottoms to my length!

Now lets talk about the shorts in the bag. Good Lord they're crazy short... they're like frickin underwear! Lucky for you He Is Risen AFTER you gave them away- or I'm pretty sure He'd hand out punishment. And you wore these? It's your fathers fault.

Oh, the jeans with the rhinestones on the pocket are so cool! A little tight, but I'm wearing them around the house to hopefully stretch them out before casual day on Friday. I sit for long periods of time, and eat a lot of chocolate, so looser jeans would be helpful. Oh, I'll have to cut these down, too. By the way, I don't remember buying them. Did you jack them from one of your friends? Can you tell me which one? I ran into Ali at the San Tan Mall last month and she complimented me on my shirt, which I thought was your shirt, but was actually her shirt. Awkward.

And of course I have to mention Marley before I sign off. Have I told you today how much I love her? But I have to ask, when I picked her up last night and she started screaming, was that really her Happy Cry? Or were you making that up?

Love You More,
Mom

Dear Jon,

When I said to you on Friday, "Yay, it's pay day, I ran out of cheezits two days ago" and you responded, "I don't know whether to laugh or cry," well it's okay to laugh. I was making a funny. I never run out if cheezits.

Sincerely,
The girl with the great sense of humor

Dear mom and dad,

I'm sorry our visit today was ruined. I had so much to tell you, so many things to talk about. There are things you don't know, and I know this as fact because dad hasn't yet made an appearance, questioning me in that cop-voice, "what were you thinking?" But next week, when I visit again, I'll make it up to you. I just hope that crazy ant isn't still around, crawling through the grooves of your headstone all pacman-like. So distracting to someone like me... I tried to focus, but come on, it was totally pacman! If he's there next week, I'll flick him. I promise.

Love and miss you both!

Dear new Meth Baker friend,

You are too cool. I like you. I don't know if its because you're my first meth baker friend ever, or because you're the only person here that's nice to me. Do you see the looks I get from the Dealers and pot smokers' girlfriends? I walked past one the other day and I swear when she looked at me I peed a little. She scared me. Well anyway, I like you and I'm sorry I was so cryptic about which apartment I live in. "Yeah, I'm down there, around the corner, on the side, by the other one, across the way." That was cryptic, wasn't it? Don't take it personally. I probably wouldn't give my address to my other meth baker friends either ... if I had other meth baker friends, which I think I'll just stick to the one for right now... It's cool and all, but I don't want to make it a habit.
Bahahaha - I crack myself up!

Sincerely,
Your new neighbor, please don't try and find me

Off the top of my head - nothing

You know the feeling when you have a song in your head that you can’t stop singing? Sometimes it’s an entire song, sometimes it’s only the five words you remember, and possibly they’re words that belong, but not necessarily? Or you have that catch-phrase to a commercial you watched when you were seven that you haven’t seen in decades. “He likes it, hey Mikey!” 

Multiply that by 9 and add a side of ranch. Ranch keeps me coming back for more.

I am suddenly wide awake at 3:30am with an unfinished sentence in my head that I just can't get rid of it because I can’t fill in the unfinished part... the blank at the end... and I'm not falling back asleep because of it.  At least when I'm singing that song, I can sing it, I can sing ACTUAL words that finish (with a final punctuation so it's not left dangling), and eventually pass it off to the first or next person that walks by. I’ve done it; I’ve done it purposely and I’ve done it by accident. Either way, I’ve done it. What a very stupid blank; a ridiculous black hole of a stupid blank. 

“My daughter dispelled the myth that _____________.”

Besides the fact that I DON’T KNOW WHERE THIS SENTENCE CAME FROM, I can’t put a word in this blank. And it’s not that I’m trying for a perfect word, or a crafty word, or even a REAL word. I just can’t put any word… not a single word, not a group of words. Jesus H. Christ. I can’t cheat at it, either. I tried changing myth to belief. I tried pawning the responsibility off on someone else, too, by changing daughter to John, Joe, Jack and Mary. I even tried real people like Lynnette (from work), Brandy (from my apartment’s leasing office), and Laura (tomorrow’s Happy Hour partner). It doesn’t work. Nothing works. I’m really putting a lot of work into this. I’m trying to make myself believe that the sentence doesn’t have to make sense, but that’s so not true. I mean really, come on, it’s me we’re talking about. It absolutely has to make sense and I just want to cry because I have no idea why . This is way too complicated. If I put an actual myth to the sentence, it should make it easier, right, but at 3:30 am, I don’t know any myths (and at 3:30 am, my imagination is sleeping – pssh – so I can’t make one up). If I had my thesaurus, I might have a shot, but I can't find it. There's only two places it can be - in the closet, or not in the closet. Are pot-smokers thieves? I swear if my pot smoking neighbors stole it, I'm gonna be pissed when I'm awake. It's pretty valuable to me. Probably the most valuable thing in the apartment, other than my borrowed day bed. Without my borrowed day bed I'd be sleeping on the floor, and we all know something (or someone) has died a most probable and untimely death on the floor and the desacrated remains (not the word I want to use, but without my thesaurus we're all stuck) resonates several inches above the carpet. *shiver* *making the sign of the cross* *oh, right, not believing in God*

I had great intentions when I went to sleep. Huge intentions. I had my dream laid out. I knew who it was about, and I promise there were no blanks (or myths, or daughters) involved. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t trying to dispel anything either. (Or maybe I was… that would be an awesome dream, and I'm picturing a cape...)

“My daughter dispelled the myth that _____________.”

“…. Sleep is necessary.”
“…. Vocabulary is important.”
“…. Peaches grow on trees.”

OH. Done.  Cool.                                                         

Now, "My thesaurus is _______________.

This post brought to you by 4G

In my twenties, I decided I didn't want to be famous. I wanted to live in a log cabin in the woods, completely removed from society. I wanted to have wolves as pets and not pay taxes. I'd wear sweatpants around the house two weeks at a time (or Calvin Klein courderoys) and spend all my hours watching wildflowers grow along the edge of my wrap-around porch.

I always held out for that cabin; I was sure I'd have it. It's time, however, to put that little dream in the trash.  In my forties, and in a wild, sad, funny, tender, and frightening turn around, I am ambushed by the very mortifying fact that -

I.

Cannot.

Live.

Alone.

My first week back in Arizona wasn't all that bad. In fact, I rather enjoyed being in my own space. I fantasized about all the hours I'd spend writing That Book. I realized my fondness for fried pickles. I choreographed badass routines to Cassie's Me & U and DJ Laz's Move Shake Drop. I found definite entertainment in my mundane reality.

By week two, it just became mundane (with a little schizo paranoia thrown in).

Surviving boredom - and sleeping with the light off - has been challenging. One night, to keep from going stale and yawning myself to death, I downloaded NINETEEN new apps to my iPhone. I now have a flashlight, a boxing timer, at least 5 different photo editing tools, Paula Dean's cooking magazine, some uber-brilliant quotes, the CalorieKing (had to once I got Paula Dean), solitaire, Walgreens, a talking cat, and a gas buddy. As it turns out, last month when I got my new iPhone, I lost my unlimited data plan, so I'll be deleting all my new apps - they. suck. data. I think I'll keep solitaire, though. That game will always be badass.

You would think that I'd have my hands full, after all, I am a 'newly' new grandmother. Just so happens I raised an independent child who wants to do this on her own. I offered bribes. She didn't bite. I offered God's right hand. Then his left. A week into grandmotherhood and I haven't changed a single diaper. I have, however, done her food shopping.

Sitting in an empty apartment is driving me nuts. If you're wondering why it's empty, it's because my yin and yang haven't cooperated enough for me to make a trip back to Vegas to collect my house. I'm betting about now that John and Margaret are considering Craigslisting in order to take back their garages.

"I swear you'll have your garages back soon. Or by Fall. Whichever comes first."

In the meantime, I have a weeks worth of clothes, 3 pair of shoes, a TV, DVD player, and 9 seasons of NCIS. But you want to hear something that really sucks? A weeks worth of clothes makes for a really tiny load of laundry. Laundry which has to be done in the community laundry room, operated by quarters. Imagine that, my first week in the apartment and I noticed it had pot smokers, meth bakers, 42 BMWs and really large dumpsters, but I never noticed it didn't have a washer and dryer in the unit.

Looking on the bright side of things, if I was in that log cabin, I probably wouldn't have 4G, just 9 seasons of NCIS.